Clothes Make the (Wo)Man
by Signy1
Summary: Today's mission, Hogan decided, calls for a pretty fraulein. More's the pity, they're in fairly short supply in Stalag 13, and there isn't time to borrow one from the Underground. Guess who draws the short straw... and the metaphorical booby prize. Fortunately, Carter's there to relieve at least a bit of the tension, one way or the other.


Hogan gave Newkirk a critical once-over. "…No," he said, finally. "It's just not right. Something's off."

Newkirk perked up. "Does that mean I can take off this bloody dress and we can come up with another plan?"

"Nope," Hogan said blithely. "That means you can take off those bloody nylons for a minute. Your legs are too hairy; no woman would be caught dead looking like that."

"Being caught dead looking like this is exactly what's got me worried, Colonel. And with all due respect, sir, why in _hell_ were you ogling my legs?"

"Better me than the Germans, wouldn't you say?" Hogan grinned, with just enough bite in it to convey the fact that, while he was fine with the banter, this was not actually up for debate. He opened a locker, rummaged for a moment. "Here. Take this, and go get yourself squared away. You can use my office if you'd rather the privacy."

Newkirk stared at the shaving kit Hogan shoved in his hands, then at his commanding officer, and there were simply no words for the expression on his face. Quite literally, no words, not in any of the nine different languages spoken in the barracks. "Obeying as ordered, sir," he said after an excruciatingly long moment. The fact that the entire barracks (and, quite possibly, the neighboring barracks as well,) could clearly hear him muttering "I should've joined the bleeding navy," as the door to Hogan's office closed behind him was probably not an accident.

The men traded smirks for a while, until an "Ow! Sod it…" came wafting through the door.

"Sounds like he cut himself," LeBeau observed.

"Huh. Do you think that would qualify him for a wound stripe?" Kinch wondered, tongue firmly in cheek.

"I'll bring him a band-aid," Carter said, hopping up. He retrieved them from his footlocker— he needed them often enough that keeping them close at hand was only sensible— and walked into Hogan's office without bothering to knock.

Newkirk was sitting at Hogan's desk, skirts hiked up to his thigh and one foot propped against the table in possibly the most unladylike position imaginable. He looked up at Carter, and in an irritated voice, said, "Yes, Andrew? Was there something you wanted?"

"Um, I thought it sounded like… I thought you might need these," he said, holding out the small box.

"Fine. Leave them on the table," he said, turning back to the problem of how, precisely, to shave his leg with a straight razor without either twisting himself into a pretzel or severing his Achilles tendon. They hadn't covered this in basic training.

"Hey, I think you missed a spot," said Carter, who had not taken the subtle hint that his presence was no longer required, and pointed to a small patch of well-lathered hair on his calf.

"Whatever would I do without you," Newkirk said flatly. "Give us a chance to find out, why don't you?"

"Aw, I'm just trying to help," Carter said.

"You're going to help me into an early grave. Shoo."

"Well, you don't need to be so grumpy," Carter said. " _I_ wasn't the one who was staring at your legs." Without seeming to recognize the inherent irony, he continued, "Oh, you missed another spot."

There was a pause. "Carter," Newkirk said, with exaggerated calm. "I am going to tell you this once. And only once. This girdle is pinching me in places I'd rather not discuss in polite company, these shoes hurt like blazes, I'm almost certain that something's set up housekeeping in this wig, and that French swamp water they're passing off as perfume is giving me a headache you wouldn't believe. This mission is going to be a nightmare, and, even if everything goes like bloody clockwork, the very best case scenario, the absolute most I can hope for, is that I can outrun the Gestapo, in high heels no less, and make it back here in time to turn myself in and get chucked in the cooler. In short, Andrew-me-lad, I am not in the most chipper of moods, you are getting on my last nerve, this razor is very sharp indeed, and I've never heard it said that a man needs _both_ ears to build bombs. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Carter said, a bit miffed. "Boy! Try to be nice, and where does it get you?" He opened the door and stepped through. "Hey, don't anyone go in there," he said loudly. "Must be his time of the month or something. That's what my dad would say when my mom got all cranky, anyway."

With that Parthian shot, he slammed the door shut behind him, and was rewarded with a volley of snickers from the men in the barracks, and with an inchoate growl from the other side of the door. It would be hard to say which was more responsible for the smug grin on his face as he went back to his bunk.

"I'd say he's not going to be living that one down any time soon," Kinch said, shaking his head. "The guys are going to have a field day."

"Yeah, I know," Carter said, still grinning. "He's going to be madder than a wet hen."

"Just what we need. An extra-grouchy Newkirk. Thanks a lot, Carter," LeBeau said, rolling his eyes.

"Hey, I had to do something," Carter said defensively. "When he's thinking about how much he'd like to clobber me, he's _not_ thinking about getting caught by the Gestapo or being shot or any of the other awful ways things could go wrong. It calms him right down. Every time."

Hogan raised his eyebrows. "Carter, you never cease to amaze me," he said. That was a bit of psychology he hadn't expected from him.

"Er… is that good or bad, sir?"

"Depends on the day," Hogan said. "Hey, Cinderella! Come on out of there; it's time for the ball."

The door opened.

Fraulein Newkirkberger wasn't what anyone would call pretty, but 'striking' wasn't overstating the case too badly. Somehow, the skillful interplay of wig and cosmetics softened the lines of his face, blurring them into something believably feminine. His build was entirely wrong, but a couple of rolled up socks and a very tight girdle were doing yeoman's service in helping create a figure that, if not precisely voluptuous, could at least pass casual inspection; in short, he'd arranged things such that that he bulged where a lady ought to, and didn't where she shouldn't. The smart shoes masked his somewhat sizable feet, and the kid gloves sheathing his hands made them look a bit daintier.

So much for externals; as regarded his demeanor, however unhappy he was with his assigned part, his acting was impeccable. The way he held himself, the way he moved, was unmistakably feminine, graceful and demure. The only false note was the death glare in the wide green eyes, which was not softened in the slightest by his mascara'ed eyelashes, and which made it abundantly clear that the first man to make a comment, or otherwise step so much as an inch over the line, would regret it. Thoroughly.

"Wow," Carter—of course it would be Carter—said. "You look terrific."

"Oh, shove off, Andrew," said Newkirk, unappeased.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Carter's a bit deeper than he often seems, or at least I like to think so. That little performance of his would have appealed both as an undeniably good chance to tease, and as a genuine bit of kindness to help a buddy through a tense mission.

After Newkirk's initial foray into the wonderful world of women's clothing—I don't recall the precise wording of the lines, but both he and LeBeau were fairly adamant about preferring to risk whatever penalties mutiny might entail— they shoved the poor guy into drag quite a few times. And frankly, I always thought he was pretty damned convincing in a dress... but I did wonder if Hogan wasn't having just the tiniest bit of fun at his expense by falling back on it as a strategy so often.

And as for the nine languages bit— well, English, German, French, and Lakota are canon. Russian and Italian seemed likely, via Sam and Garlotti, respectively. As for the other three, I could make guesses, but they'd only be that. If anyone in the barracks spoke Yiddish, and I'm not saying anyone did, it would have been wiser to keep it to themselves.


End file.
